


Winter Solstice

by FrangipaniFlower



Series: Time and Tide [3]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Depression, F/M, Fluff and Angst and Smut, Healing, Love, PTSD, an alternative S6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 06:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12721788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrangipaniFlower/pseuds/FrangipaniFlower
Summary: The longest night of the year - Carrie comes home and is eavesdropping on a conversation between Quinn and Franny, telling her another piece of Quinn‘s past.





	Winter Solstice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elim_garak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/gifts).



> Laure convinced me that the setting of Allhallowtide is worth to explore with more oneshots, each set on one day, each revealing more about Quinn and his past.
> 
> So this is the second one and there will be more.
> 
> Unbeta-ed, it’s that kind of week.

The room is dark when he wakes up again, and he knows he is not alone. But then again - he can never say what’s real and what’s just in his mind. Shadows, past and present, dreams and reality, one goes into another.

„Quinn? Are you awake?“

So this voice is real. He sits up with a groan, disoriented but trying to focus.

„Why do you sleep so much?“

He sighs but refuses to answer.

„Can you come upstairs? Latisha has to leave and my mom‘s late.“

„S-sure. J-just give me m-my-,“ his voice trails off but Franny decides she’s in charge now.

„Medicine? Mom counted them for you in the morning. Wait.“

She jumps on her feet, switches the lights on and brings him the small plastic cup from the kitchen counter.

„T-tell Latisha five m-more m-m-,“ God, it’s so hard to find the words when he slept too long, and his brain seems to refuse to cooperate and coordinate because now he can’t get his leg over the edge of the bed.

„Minutes? Yup. I‘ll go brush my teeth.“

Yeah. Great idea. Me too. 

It’s almost eight. Carrie’s late and he slept for four hours. 

He‘s worried. She never tells him enough. But he knows she’s not well. He doesn’t know what he is for her. 

What they are. 

They fuck, maybe two or three times a week. And drink coffee. And have cookies and dinner with her kid. Sometimes they talk. Well, Carrie talks. Sometimes he watches her sleeping when he can’t find sleep. She counts his pills. She’s good at making him do things he doesn’t want to do. Meds. Therapy. Talking. Getting his pathetic ass out of bed. 

Sometimes he spends the night upstairs. With her. Afterwards. Not often. But when he does - it feels _real_.

A woman. A man. 

Carrie. Just her. Always. 

When he comes upstairs, Latisha is already in her coat, and Franny is tucked in, waiting for him. 

„So,“ he says after Latisha waved goodbye and after he sat down on the edge of Franny’s mattress.

„Do you know which day is today?“ 

„W-Wednesday. No, S-S-Thursday.“ 

„No.“ 

He hasn’t the heart to tell her it doesn’t matter to him. 

„It’s a special day, Quinn.“ 

„Not Christmas.“ 

„Nooooo. That’s in four days. Almost a week. No. Today is winter sol-,“ she pauses for a beat, trying to remember the word, „sols-stice. Can you say it?“ 

She does that with him. And it’s fine. 

„S-sol-st-stice.“ 

„It’s a difficult word.“ 

„It is.“ 

„It’s a special night. Magical,“ Franny explains in a loud whisper, her eyes wide open.“ 

„I k-know,“ he plays along. 

„You know a story,“ she‘s excited now, and sometimes he wonders what these sudden mood swings may imply in the long run, „tell me. Tell me the story. I knew it. I said to Latisha that you will know that day. She didn’t. But I said you do. And I was right. Story.“ 

She curls up under her blanket and looks at him expectantly, and of course she has no idea what she does to him. And of course he obeys. 

„F-fine. And then sleep. N-no second story.“ 

„Okay.“ 

He ignores the small pout and recollects his memory. She wouldn’t notice if he makes up the parts he forgot or doesn’t want to tell. It’s just a story. 

„It’s the longest night of the year,“ he starts and Franny nods reassuringly. „People believed it’s a magical night full of w-wonders. Once in a small village near a forest, in a small country with as much elves as people and sheep, there was a young woman. She lived a very quiet life, worked as a maid up in the castle, left her small shed by dawn and never came back before late in the night. She barely spoke. But sometimes people heard a beautiful voice singing ancient songs about the small folk. It was her - her name was Caoimhe - and she sang about love and loss and the ancient myths of the forests. Once she’d lived there, she’d secretly promised her hand to a mighty fairy prince,“ Franny smiles, and that makes him smile too. 

„But the night when they planned to run away - winter solstice - a terrible storm came up and they missed each other in the darkest darkness and the howling winds. Witches and dwarves and all kind of mighty creatures were up for mischief in that night so her fairy prince could not break the spell cast upon her by a grim witch. But he promised to keep searching for her. And every year, winter solstice night, when the worlds merge, he finds her, in the forest near the village, by the stream, singing her tunes. And for one night they are back together.“ 

„That is a sad story.“ 

„It is, I th- think.“ 

„But they can meet again.“ 

„Yes. Winter s-sol-solstice.“ 

„Do they meet tonight? Will he find her?“ 

„That w-was a long time ago,“ but then when he sees her little face clouding with disappointment, „b-but it’s a m-magic night, so y-yes.“ 

He sees that it’s not enough and tries again. 

„M-m-maybe he breaks the spell tonight.“ 

And can take her home?“ 

Quinn nods, and Carrie wishes she could see his face, but she can’t from her secret place behind the door. And she knows he wouldn’t welcome her overhearing this conversation. So she stands still and breathes as flat as she can, hearing her daughter asking Quinn a question which breaks her heart. 

„Who told you these stories?“ 

„A w-woman. When I was l-li- small.“ 

Your mom?“ 

„N-no.“ 

„Where was your mom? Working?“

„N-no. N-not there.“ 

„Oh.“ 

Carrie sees her daughter sitting up and looking at Quinn, with her trademark quizzical glance. 

„Never there?“ 

„N-no.“ 

She wraps her arms around him and presses her curls against his chest, ever since that Halloween night she often sits on his lap or hugs him before she goes to bed. Carrie feels like the intruder she is and slowly moves back into the hallway, towards the kitchen. 

So she doesn’t see Quinn tucking Franny back in. 

„It’s f-fine Franny. That’s how I l-learnt all the s-stories. T-time to s-sleep now.“ 

„Good night Quinn. You stay upstairs until Mommy comes home?“ 

„Y-yes. Of course.“ 

„Say her hello from me. And tell her the story.“ 

And before he can answer she rolls over and yawns, her eyes closed now. 

When he leaves her room he sees Carrie‘s coat over a chair and her shoes next to Franny‘s, so she’s home. 

He finds her in the dark living room, she‘s standing by the window, studying the darkness and the rain outside. 

He never knows what’s going on with her these days, neither does he know what to say. 

But when she feels his presence in the room, a ray of light from the hallway announcing his arrival, she turns around and makes two tentative steps towards him. 

„Quinn.“ 

Her voice is quivering, but before he can think about it, he feels her arm around his neck, the fingers of her free hand ghosting over his cheek, tracing his lower lip, and of course he leans into her touch and meets her for the kiss she’s asking for. 

They don’t talk. He feels her hands slipping under his shirt and roaming over his skin when she parts her lips and his tongue finds hers, and there’s an urgency in her movements he didn’t expect. But she’s an enigma to him anyway, and this is far better than the silent glares she gives him on other days. 

He knows what she likes. But he doesn’t want fast satisfaction now, he needs more of her, of this. 

Undressing takes time, it always does when he’s doing it, and he knows it’s difficult for her to not let her impatience shine through, but today she waits for him. 

It’s easier to undress her than himself because he can see his hand when he’s opening her buttons, and his eyes can complete what his tactile sense fails to deliver, and when he _sees_ the button his fingers _obey_ to perform the right movements. That - and the gratification. Revealing that soft skin, inch by inch, each button undone allowing him a better view and more of what he’s been craving for. 

Carrie finds it hard to see how much concentration he musters to open her buttons, one by one, his brow furrowed and his eyes staring down on the little round enemies. 

But then again, when his hand slips under the cotton and cups her breast, his thumb grazing over the fabric of her bra, his mouth kissing the curve of her neck - she knows he couldn’t do this without being allowed the before. It’s a fragile imbalance they are living, and each day is new and equally difficult. 

And yet this is what she wants. 

Needs even. Him. 

Her underwear are the only remaining pieces of clothes when he lets got of her and closes the door, the yellow lights from the street the only illumination of the room now. Quinn takes her hand and leads her to the couch, leaning in to kiss her again when they sit, searching and finding the clasp of her bra. 

She hopes he doesn’t know that she only bought the ones with front clasps in November, right after their second night. 

She’s done thinking when his mouth closes around her nipple, his fingertips softly caressing the other one, she’s longing for firmer touch but knows he won’t give her that too soon. 

He never talks during their love making, just sometimes he whispers her name, but his eyes tell her so much of what he can’t say. She tries to do the same, and not to hide or close her eyes, but to convey what _this_ means to her, that he is still here and that they are _finally_ together. 

So their breathing, faster now, is the only sound when his mouth and hand explore her body anew with an abandon and tenderness she never expected from him. 

He stripped off his clothes some time ago, always turns away from her when he does so, and returned to his silent seduction afterwards. Carrie is lying backwards on the couch now, a large hand securing her hip, Quinn‘s lips leaving a trail of butterfly kisses on the inner side of her thigh before he slowly hooks a finger into the waistband of her underwear and moves it down. 

It’s a first for them, he never did that before, and when his mouth makes contact, two long fingers parting her folds, she trembles the moment his tongue trails along her slit. He finds her clit and stays just there, deliberately slow laps, _too slow_ and she knows he won’t grant her easy satisfaction. 

He brings her to the brink with his tongue, mouth and fingers - and then he keeps her there, small and slow movements, not enough friction, but enough to make her beg to give her more. 

He stops then and comes up, and the way he looks at her, that look in his eyes and with the smallest but most genuine smile, makes a hot jolt rush through her core. 

„Soon,“ he whispers, his hand caressing her breast, and then he bends down again, finds her centre again and this time he doesn‘t stop but sucks and licks until she’s a whimpering mess, writhing under his touch. 

Afterwards he gathers her in his arm, his back pressed against the back of the couch, and holds her, Carrie‘s face buried into the curve of his neck, he can feel her breath on his skin. 

She wonders if he knows what she feels and what he is for her. And her mind drifts off to the story he told her daughter, about the one night these poor souls could find each other. 

Each day feels like she is losing him again, and she never knows what he needs to stay _here_ with her and not to lose himself in the darkness.

She just knows she’d do anything to keep him here, tethered to this reality. 

Usually they sit upright when they are together, Carrie straddling him. She assumes it’s what he prefers because he can use his arm then to touch her instead of balancing his weight, and can still be in control of his movements. But now, as she is molded against his body on the couch, both of them lying on their sides and facing each other, she slowly locks her upper leg around his hip and deliberately tilts her hips a little forward. 

She feels him nudging against her entrance, and when she adjusts her position with another small swing of her hips it takes just a second for him to take the cue before he slowly eases into her, his eyes seeking and finding hers. She cups his cheek with her hand and leans in to kiss him, and gives in to the slow cadence he chooses. 

All the questions vanish for that one precious moment and suddenly it’s so easy and so _necessary_ to say it. 

„Quinn. I love you.” 

His hand is at the nape of her neck and he pulls her in for a kiss, his thrusts still slow and deep. He comes with his mouth on hers, his body is trembling and she feels his warmth deep inside her. 

She doesn’t need him to say it. She read his letter so many times, and he lived up to that promise for so many years. 

And yet again, it’s all in his eyes. Behind the constant turmoil - often fear, sometimes panic, most times sadness - showing in his gaze whenever she looks at him, ever since the day he woke up and still knew who she was, whenever he looks at her it’s there. She does not believe she deserves it. But she came to understand that it’s a gift and that it is up to her to make him understand that he is worth to be loved as well. 

So she says it again, his movements stilled but he is still inside her, his hand gently caressing her back, holding her and making her feel cherished. 

This time she whispers it against his ear, his hair is still too long and tickles her nose. 

„I love you, Quinn.” 

That night, he stays with her. He tries to sneak away after a few hours, but when she feels him moving she circles her fingers around his wrist and whispers “Stay” and so he does. 

It’s not even dawn yet and she’s grateful when she feels him settling next to her again. Only then she notices that his breathing his ragged. And when she wraps her arms around him and wants to ask what the dream was about, she feels that his cheeks are wet. 

“Hey,” she whispers, “it’s gonna be okay. It will take time, but we’ll be okay. You will be okay. And I’ll be with you.” 

And then she holds him and he finally cries, feeling her arms around him and her heartbeat under his cheek. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday my dear friend!


End file.
